


Take Your Time

by Droneshard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bloody Kisses, M/M, alluded to fist fights, country bar, country boy ben solo, grunge hux, tattoed Hux, technically a small town canadian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Droneshard/pseuds/Droneshard
Summary: “You’re new here,” Hux states, eyes never trailing from where they’ve locked onto Ben’s.Ben clears his throat, “not exactly.”"Ah,” Hux tuts and taps his finger against the side of his refilled glass. “A reluctant return then is it?”“Something like that."





	Take Your Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [multipurposetoolguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/multipurposetoolguy/gifts).



> This is a late birthday present for my absolute best friend in the whole god damn world [multipurposetoolguy](http://multi-purpose-tool-guy.tumblr.com/)  
> I might have said I would never in a million years write you a country au but considering I live in the Canadian equivalent of Texas... I am clearly a liar. I hope this satisfies even a bit of your cravings for once a cowboy always a cowboy Ben Solo and grunge dirty boy Hux.  
> I love you so incredibly much Coral! I would write you country au's like this a million times over just to hear you scream at me from another country entirely. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for your birthday but I hope this will do <3
> 
> Also a quick thank you to [zaera-d](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/zaera-d) and [theweddingofthefoxes](http://theweddingofthefoxes.tumblr.com/) who were both sweet enough to give this a look over and encourage me along the way!
> 
> This fic got its title from [Sam Hunt's Take Your Time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JYBsTZDXPV8)

The snow follows him in on his heels, drops in clumps off of his boots onto the rug laid out in the entryway. Ben can still feel the cold on his flushed red cheeks, on the tips of his ears where the wind has exposed them. The inside of the bar is overly hot in comparison; he’s quick to shrug off his jean jacket and the hoodie beneath it to sling over his arm.

It’s an odd sensation to be here after so many years. The same twang of Luke Bryan blares from the speakers, the same hunting trophy’s hang on the walls. The old bar at the back of the room still needs a good polish; the dance floor most likely holds the scuffs that his boots had once tracked. It’s familiar and not. The people are the same and yet here he is – a shadow of his former self tracing an all too intimate trail.

Each bar stool is still over stuffed, leaking batting out of the divots formed in the sides and the tops from wear. He takes one on the far side away from the dance floor, waits for the bartender to stop chatting to a slender red head on the opposite end from him.

Wonders, briefly, if anyone might recognize him now that his hair has grown down to his shoulders to shield his ears; not that anyone might forget a face like his but the scar is new, still healing and he doubts anyone will see past it.

The music changes and he drums his fingers on the top of the bar, rests his head in his hand and feigns the patience he wishes he possessed. Something slow is playing now, drawling, intimate in a way that makes his skin crawl for how it gives his heart a solid yank in his chest. He glares annoyed above all else at the side of the bartender’s head, he’ll need more than just a drink if he plans to sit here for any length of time. There’s no place else for him to be right now, nowhere that isn’t the cab of his truck or the claustrophobic innards of a place he never considered home.

He considers pulling his jacket back on, forcing himself back into the cold for a smoke and hopping back into his truck. But there’s still not a single place he can go in this shit hole of a town, the next bar is an hour drive through a blizzard and the next city twice that.

Ben licks at the back of his molars, squeezes his eyes shut until they ache. Feels how hollow his chest gapes from the slow drawl of country music blaring from the tinny speakers above him.

“What can I get you?”

He glances up, startled by the bartender standing before him, his stomach roils uncomfortably as he’s flashed a heart throbbing smile. _Same people_ – he thinks bitterly, watches that same smile morph into something curled downwards at the edges. “Pint of Guinness,” he cuts him off before he can voice the connection.

“You know we don’t have imports, Ben,” the bartender gives him a sympathetic half smile before reaching to fill a pint with Bud Light.

Ben sighs miserably, tries to think why he ever thought of this place with some sort of fond nostalgia as he takes the pint and attempts not to equate it to piss water. Regardless he slugs it back in one long series of gulps before placing the empty glass back on the bar in front of him.

“I’m sorry about –“

Ben cuts him off again before he can finish the sentiment. “Please, Poe, don’t.”

Poe shrugs, takes the empty glass from in front of him and rinses it out. “I’m surprised you came back at all.”

“Me too,” Ben mutters.

As if it was a choice to be back here. As if Leia would have ever forgiven him if he hadn’t. That wasn’t something that mattered before but it did now. Now that… he can’t even stand to think it; is forced to rub at the scruff budding at his cheeks to keep from reaching for something to throw.

A refilled pint is left in front of him as Poe shuffles down to the other side of the bar. Back to the red head with both elbows leaned on the table in front of them. He sips it slowly, does his best not to gag from both the taste and the memories it evokes.

He watches them with mild interest, scrapes at the back of his memory for any trace of red hair. Nothing turns up and he’s left staring as they throw their head back with a laugh. Ben’s chest clenches red hot and he rocks slightly on his stool, feels the breath leave his lungs.

Poe wanders back Ben’s way a couple minutes later, leans over a tap to fill it and Ben has to concentrate on staying in his seat, on keeping his voice just barely audible above the music. “Who is that?”

“Who? You mean Hux?” Poe glances down the bar following Ben’s line of sight. “Don’t waste your time buddy; he’s not looking for anything right now. I guarantee it.”

Not that Ben has ever taken any of Poe’s warnings to heart. He’s staring, he knows he is but he’s never seen anyone so out of place yet so at home in their surroundings.

From across the bar it’s difficult to make out exactly what is tattooed black along his pale skin but where the white of his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows along his forearms there’s more ink than skin. Back home he would expect it, chase after it like a moth to flame but here in this back roads town it’s like a punch in the gut. Every time Hux tilts his head Ben can catch the little glint of a piercing on his eyebrow, there might be one through his lip too though it might just be saliva from how his tongue keeps darting out to lick between his lips.

The man’s a mismatch of put together and dishevelled. His hair slicked back, his white shirt crisp and proper except where it’s unbuttoned down past his sternum and rolled up at the sleeves. He’s wearing black Doc Marten’s with slim leg charcoal dress pants. There’s no question that he could never belong in a place like this.

Yet he sits with a glass tumbler of amber liquor in hand, sipping at it as he watches the TV mounted onto the top of the bar. If Ben angles himself just right he can see the very side of the little 42” and how it currently plays a soccer match. He wonders vaguely just how much the man would have had to bribe Poe to change it from hockey this time of year.

Ben isn’t even sure what he’d say to him. The longer he sits here staring the more awkward it will become if he gets up the courage to approach him. It’s absolutely dastardly how much the man fits to his ascribed ‘type.’ So much so that he knows he’ll regret leaving here without trying.

More time passes by; he’s begun to lose his nerve but his presence has been noted. Hux follows the movement of Poe sidling towards Ben’s side of the bar and Hux’s eyes seem to _linger_ – but not on Poe.  He smiles, coyly; tips back his head to finish the last dredges of his drink and sets his glass in front of him on the table with a clink, catching Ben’s eyes before shifting to speak to Poe when he approaches. He leans forward in his seat and Ben can almost imagine the purr of his voice – watches the man bark out a laugh as he settles back, focuses on the match playing on the TV.

It’s driving Ben mad.

He wants to touch. He wants to taste. Whatever the enigma this man is he wants to crack him open like a book and scan over every page.

Ben settles down on the stool next to him, prepares to be met will a roll of the other man’s eyes. Hux glances to the side, offers a slight tug of his lips into a forming smirk as he casually looks Ben up and down. “Hi,” Ben says. He cringes, wishes the first words out of his mouth could have been met with elegance.

“Hello,” Hux tips the rest of his drink back, his fringe falling slightly into his eyes where it’s come free from its product. He pushes it back from his face, holds the glass out to Poe who has suddenly reappeared.

Up close Ben can make out each individual fleck in Hux’s iris, the pale lashes that close over them and he feels his heart stutter as Hux raises a pierced brow. He waits for him to bring up the scar, to ask to touch it as so many others have. “You’re new here,” Hux states, eyes never trailing from where they’ve locked onto Ben’s.

Ben clears his throat, “not exactly.” The back of his neck has started to sweat, his ears feel hot and he has no more layers to strip out of to relieve himself from the heat traveling up his spine. Up close Hux is so much more distracting than he had anticipated. He keeps catching himself watching the horizontal labret pierced in the center of his lip and even more the slip skin to the right of it where a knuckle might have torn it. Hux seems to lick at the cut unconsciously, worrying it where it has just begun to scab; maybe only days old.

“Ah,” Hux tuts and taps his finger against the side of his refilled glass. “A reluctant return then is it?”

“Something like that,” Ben mumbles, cards his gaze along all of the man’s sharp edges.

He hates how he’s suddenly forgotten how to make conversation. Probably making a fool of himself but Hux hasn’t once glanced away from him since he’s taken the seat next to him. Hux misses a goal and the flurry of an uproar from the crowd on the screen in favor of drinking Ben in.

Poe watches over them with a critical gaze, serving patrons that have taken a breather from dancing to refill on drinks. Ben has half a mind to crumple up a napkin and chuck it at the back of his head.

“What about you, I’ve never seen you around here before,” Ben states quietly, leans a little closer and can smell whatever cologne Hux has spritzed possibly hours earlier.

Hux’s brows arch higher and the grin he now sports is almost mocking. “I take it you haven’t heard the rumors then,” he offers offhand, wipes the bottom of his lip off with the back of his hand as if there’s blood dribbling down his chin. It would be a nice look on him and Ben’s beginning to believe a fist left the cut there. “I’ll spare you the drumroll – they’re true.”

“I just got into town this morning,” Ben says, wants to tug on that bottom lip of his and see if it bleeds but this is neither the time nor the place.

With chin in hand Hux returns his gaze to the TV and Ben feels he’s been dismissed. The resilient part of him makes him stay. This allows him to examine the ink donning the ginger’s knuckles and the muted purple of healing bruises that have bloomed just beneath the black lines.

What more could he even say? Living here there’s no way Hux hasn’t heard of him; of the man he no longer is. After all no one grows up in a town and sets the local church on fire without being a conversation piece for the next four generations.

Hux stands from his seat and Ben’s heart seems to freeze – he’s fucked it up, Hux is going to leave. He watches Hux pick up the leather jacket hanging on the stool next to him and walk towards the exit, feels something close to stricken, heart sick. His shoulders curl forward and he fists the denim of his jacket until his knuckles pale.

“Well come on,” Hux glances over his shoulder at him impatiently.

Ben peels himself from his seat, slams down a handful of cash onto the bar and follows Hux out into the cold. He’s still struggling back into his layers when Hux rounds the side of the building and leans back against it.

The overhead light bathes them both in a warm glow. Snowflakes wisp by them; they settle in Hux’s hair, along his cheeks and catch in the gold of his lashes for him to blink them away. He tugs a pack of Marlboro’s from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and places one between his lips. The silver zippo follows, Hux cups his hand around it to shield it from the wind as he lights the end and takes a deep drag. He holds it between his middle and index finger as he exhales up into the flurries above him through his nose.

From here the music is softer, more a hum than anything else. Ben watches Hux smoke before the cigarette is offered to him and he takes it without thinking, places his lips over the filter and drags in deep, the ember red hot at its end. Exhales slow, the nicotine humming a bubble of satisfaction in his lungs. He takes another drag; watches how Hux’s eyes flick to his lips and how he unconsciously licks at his own. Ben ashes the end before handing it back, their fingers lingering against one another’s before Hux places it back between his pursed lips.

They continue on like this through another half of the pack. Until Ben can’t feel his hands where they’re crammed in his pockets and the tip of Hux’s nose is a bright red. Though Hux seems reluctant to return inside, he rubs his hands together, blows into them but stays propped against the frost covered wall where the cold is no doubt seeping into the leather of his jacket.

Gently Ben takes Hux’s hands in his, guides them to his pockets and slowly kneads into the cold flesh, the slim streaks of ink raised along the curve of his knuckles. The lines of his forehead appear to crinkle just the slightest and Ben expects him to pull away. Hux seems to lean forward, his fingers wrapping around Ben’s, his head tilting slightly to the side as he considers him.

 “Are you going to ask me to come home with you?” Hux tugs Ben closer to shield him from the wind, the white puff of his breath fanning up against the side of Ben’s throat.

He wants to but not back to Leia’s – to his apartment thousands of miles away from here. He barely knows a thing about him but he wants to. There’s nothing he’s wanted more.

“No,” Ben shakes his head, grips tighter around Hux’s fingers to keep him from pulling away.

Hux’s brow pinches in confusion, his mouth popping open in a little gaped ‘o’ that makes Ben’s heart stammer. He presses his lips into a thin line, breathes out heavily through his nose. “Then come back to mine.”

Ben almost agrees, catches his tongue between his teeth before he can. “Sorry darlin’, it’s better I didn’t.”

Hux seems ready to argue. He opens his mouth to retort but Ben’s lips have already pressed between them. Instantly melting into it, Hux tugs his hands free from Ben’s pockets to wrap both arms around the back of his neck and fist a hand through Ben’s hair. It’s eager, demanding and Hux seems to suck him in until Ben has him pressed back firmly into the wall behind him. “Reconsider,” Hux murmurs against his lips, lets the word hang between them until Ben pulls back to look him in the eye.

When Ben’s resolve doesn’t seem to shift Hux gnaws into his lower lip, breaks the scab open and Ben watches fascinated as blood begins to bead up from it. Hux licks at it, irritates it further.

Ben reaches between them, swipes the pad of his thumb along the cut smearing the blood along the bottom curve of Hux’s lip. The piercing peaks through beneath the thin layer and all Ben wants to do is lick it clean. “Fuck,” he rasps out, presses Hux more firmly between him and the building. Hux arches into the hold, pressing himself against Ben’s chest. The white of his teeth now painted red from where the cut has opened into his mouth.

Despite the back of his mind screaming what a _bad idea_ this is, the risk of some stranger’s blood on his tongue and the dire consequences it could ensue; Ben licks against the warm heat of Hux’s tongue. Tastes the bitter tang of iron that accompanies the hot slide; nothing has ever tasted so like home.

Fingers cling to the back of his neck, tug relentlessly into his hair, angling him this way and that as Hux takes every inch of Ben that he can get. Either the motion sensor lights above them are humming or Hux is purring low and hungry in the back of his throat.

“I can’t –” Ben pants brokenly, lips still grazing against Hux’s skin as the other man nips along his jawline persistently.

Hux’s eyes dart up to meet his. They’re sharp, angry, and Ben would do anything to soothe it but _this_ isn’t what he wants. He takes a step back to breathe and finds he’s left all his air in Hux’s lungs.

He’s about to apologize when Hux tears off the top half of his cigarette carton, fishes in his other pockets and comes out with a sharpie. He rips the lid off with his teeth, scribbles something on the inside of the lid and pushes the piece of cardboard into the back pocket of Ben’s jeans, his hand slightly gripping onto him before he takes a step back and slumps against the wall. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Ben follows the retreat, weak, so fucking _weak_ ; pulls Hux towards him lightly with a finger hooked into the belt loop of his dress pants. His teeth graze along Hux’s lower lip before he gives it a nip; Hux leans forward quick to chase the heat but Ben’s already turned away. He takes a couple steps to expand the gap between them before throwing slyly over a shoulder. “You just might.”

If he doesn’t keep walking, if he chances a glance back over his shoulder to where Hux is slumped against the bar’s brick wall he won’t be going home tonight. He fists his truck keys in his pocket, keeps his eyes trained on the snow at his feet. Promises himself that a one night stand isn’t what he _needs_. Even if what he needs right in this moment is still Hux.

His truck door screeches on its hinges as he yanks it opens, depositing himself gracelessly into the driver’s seat and rests his head against the cold plastic of the steering wheel.

He sits there longer than necessary just to feel the cold seep under his skin until he twists the key into the ignition and the truck growls to life. The headlights flick on and he throws it into reverse, peers over his shoulder and can just catch the glint of Hux’s hair as he moves away from the wall where Ben left him.

Backs out of his parking spot, throws the gear into park and growls a curse beneath his breath.

The window sticks as he rolls it down and he has to wrench on the handle until he clears it enough to lean out of. The air chills his scar, bites its’ way along the damaged skin and makes his eyes water where they’re trained on the slender form approaching him.

Hux leans both arms on the sill of the open window, peers into the darkened cab at the food wrappers crumpled on the passenger seat. “I never got your name,” he says.

“I never gave it,” Ben replies making Hux huff out a laugh through his nose. “But I know yours.”

Hux’s fingers graze along his jaw, the heat tracing along the bottom edges of the scar without making contact. For the first time he wants someone to touch, to tear into him and open him up. “Ben – I’m Ben.”

“ _Ben_ ,” Hux curls his name around his tongue. He grips Ben’s chin tightly between his fingers, leans into the window and traces his lips along his, labret catching on the dry skin. With something almost tender Hux slots their lips together and Ben has to grip the steering wheel until his knuckles are white to keep from clinging back onto him. He pulls away slow, smirking, still holding Ben’s chin.

“Goodnight Ben.”

He steps back and Ben already mourns the heat of his skin on his. Hux makes his way back into the bar. Rests his hand on the door handle and glances back at Ben who is still hanging half out of his truck watching him. He disappears behind the heavy wood and Ben leans back in his seat. Waits all of a minute before he starts rolling up his window – fishes the scrapped top half of the cigarette carton from his back pocket.

Ten digits have been scribbled on the inside of the lid and Ben grins to himself, takes his phone out of his pocket and types in each number, adds a quick text and hits send.

**Ben (01:54):** _Goodnight Hux_

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first fic under 37k (kill me). Also first rated teen! Lots of firsts for me here
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@droneshard](http://droneshard.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you for reading!!


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